The last thing she remembered was Bob’s truck driving into Isaiah’s front room and glass shattering, flying everywhere. She’d scrambled out of the way. Everything went black after that.
She had no idea where she was or if the kids were close by. They had yet to make a sound if they were, and their silence worried her. The kids should be scared and borderline frantic by now—like she was. Her tired brain shifted to worrying about Nugget and Sweeny before it circled back to Kitty and Darrin. Where are they? Why hurt two little kids and a dog?
There was no sense calling out to them. The rag around her head not only made conversation impossible, but the coarse fabric continually wicked all excess moisture away from her mouth, tongue, and lips where she desperately needed it. It chafed like a bugger and her lips were already cracked and bleeding. Dying of thirst became a very real possibility. It wouldn’t take long as parched as Roxy’s throat had become over the last few hours.
That might be what Bob intended. Torture without lifting a finger. It’d certainly make for a slow death. Maybe that was why he hadn’t come back. Maybe he’d left the truck running to trick her. No one knew where she was. Only Bob Bratton.
Damn, the wicked thoughts that assailed a woman in the middle of dark and ugly nights.
Twisting her stiff neck, Roxy earnestly tried to locate any landmark that would help her get her bearings, but the glare from those damned high beams made sight impossible.
Dark trees swelled up around her, blocking most of her view of the night sky. A few stars glittered from the midnight blackness, but there was no moon, and the only real light came from the headlights of the truck Bob had left running. The jerk.
Diesel fumes drifted her direction. Aching from the chill, she shifted her backside on the hard wooden seat as she strained forward, testing her restraints. Yeah, not going anywhere. There was no way she could lift her arms over the chair back, and the cuffs between her ankles weren’t only linked together by a short chain between them, they were also chained to the rung between the chair legs.
But Roxy was one of the District’s finest. She’d been in worse situations before. Remember Mario Forsythe? Hawthorne High? The women’s restroom in Hawthorne High? First National and a dozen other scenarios stood up for her attention. You’re damned right. She was a survivor and Bob Bratton had no idea who he’d messed with.
Stiffening her arms and shoulders, she leaned forward and willed her hands to be smaller, to contract enough to slide out of the metal cuffs. All she needed was one free hand, and she’d be home safe. Criminals did it all the time. If they could break out of handcuffs, she could, too, but—shit, shit, shit! All she got for her effort was two scraped raw wrists, a pulled muscle from straining her shoulder so hard, and possibly a cracked tooth from grinding her jaw.
What now? She growled through the annoying and slimy rag between her teeth. Now you try, try again. And again! You never quit and you bide your time because good old Bob will be back soon, and then… and then…
Then what? Obviously, Bob Bratton had an ax to grind with Candace, and Roxy completely understood that. She hadn’t much use for Candace Bratton, either, but the witch wasn’t here, and kidnapping and threatening an officer of the law to get back at an ex-wife made no sense. Whatever Bob planned to do to Roxy surely wouldn’t matter to Candace.
Come on, think! Shuddering with anger, Roxy realized her only recourse, and she had to do it before Bob came back. Closing her eyes, she blocked the fear snapping at her heels and she projected her heart and soul into the great beyond, at least, she hoped that was what she was doing. Not a psychic here, remember? Just an officer of the law who needs an assist in the worst way.
Swallowing hard to force a modicum of saliva past her parchment dry tongue, she sent her first psychic message to the man she loved. ‘I don’t know where Kitty and Darrin are, Isaiah, and, okay, yeah, I’m scared. Sure hope you get this message, cuz I can’t even tell you where I am, but I trust you. You know I do. Come find me, Mr. Psychic Dude. I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now, but I do, and I think you’ve known it for a while. I honest to God love you, Isaiah Zaroyin, and if you asked me to marry you, I’d jump your bones to prove it.’
A twig snapped to her left and Roxy ended with a frantic, ‘Hurry, Isaiah! He’s coming back. I need you! N-n-now!’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Isaiah woke from a bad dream he couldn’t remember, but the negative energy it left in its wake niggled at the back of his mind that all wasn’t right, that Roxy was angry or tired or—something. It could simply be the residue of Tucker’s frustration when he couldn’t reach Isaiah psychically. The boss would be plenty angry that his orders had been defied, but some things were worth the pain of reprisal. Seeing Roxy tonight was one of them.
“You’re awake,” Tate noticed.
“How much farther?” Isaiah squinted into the glare of oncoming freeway traffic to get his bearings.
“ETA in five. Just passed Trucker’s Corner.” The truck stop.
“You do know you’ll have to process my hands in the garage before I can go into my house, don’t you?”
“Already thought of that,” Tate replied easily. “Stop worrying. I keep a kit in the back. We’ll have the evidence bagged and tagged just like Chase wants in no time.”
Isaiah cringed. “Has he been in contact with you?”
Tate nodded. “Like I said, stop worrying. I let him know where we were headed an hour ago. He’ll be by when he and Keller finish up with Garrett Randall.”
“That might take all night. Have they got anything worthwhile out of him yet?”
“Nah. He lawyered up like you thought he would. His aunt’s on her way.”
“Sylvia Delgado got him off last time. She could do it again.”
Tate shot Isaiah a sideways glare. “Am I hearing you right? Maybe you’d better go back to sleep. No way will Randall go free on the charges he’s facing this time around. Attempted bank robbery is a federal offense. So’s extortion, attempting to bomb anything in DC proper, taking and threatening hostages, to name a few.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I am beat,” Isaiah admitted as Tate veered onto the off ramp. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Roxy’s face. A hug would have to wait until his hands were free, but when they were…
“Holy shit,” Tate hissed as he pulled onto the neatly trimmed lawn between the road in and the pasture fence that lined it.
Isaiah bolted upright, his plastic bag covered fingers gripping his knees. Police cars were everywhere, but the guard shack that Sweeny had religiously occupied until tonight was gone. Obliterated. Broken glass and twisted pieces of lumber littered the expanse now barricaded behind yellow police tape.
“Looks like something exploded,” Tate offered.
“Uh-uh. No scorch mark,” Isaiah muttered as he wrenched the side door open. He was out of the vehicle before its wheels stopped rolling.
“Wait up,” Tate ordered, but the time for waiting was over. Isaiah pulled the plastic off his hands and tucked them into his pockets so he wouldn’t alarm anyone.
Tate caught up to him before he made it to the first officer on scene. “Not on my watch, you don’t. Back in the SUV, Isaiah. Let me find out what went on here. Then I’ll drive you to your house, and you won’t end up in the local jail for being the ax murderer you look like.”
Isaiah stopped in his tracks. “You might be right.”
“I am right. Trust me. I’ll be right back.”
Isaiah made an about face and climbed back into the SUV to wait. He’d contaminated the evidence Tucker had so carefully preserved, but Isaiah wasn’t worried. It wasn’t the only blood evidence. The ME had the body.
It didn’t take long for Tate to return after talking with three of the officers present. “No explosion,” he reported. “Just some wild-assed guy in a souped-up truck who couldn’t see to drive straight. The police are still looking for him for a possible
DUI.”
“What about Sweeny, the old guy who mans the guard shack?”
“Would that be Leonard Sweeny?”
“Yes. Leonard,” Isaiah murmured as the bad feelings from his dream slithered up his back again.
“Leonard Sweeny’s fine,” Tate replied, “and we can drive around this mess if we’re careful, but be prepared. One of them said there’s been more trouble up ahead. We might have to park and go in on foot if we can’t get by the emergency equipment.”
“Go,” Isaiah breathed, his heart climbing up his throat for no apparent reason. “Go, go, go!” He felt Tate’s gaze on him, but he had to see Roxy. Now. Something wasn’t right and it had to do with…
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Tate hissed as the SUV jerked to a full stop.
Isaiah took off running. Every last emergency vehicle was parked on his front lawn. Blue, red, and yellow hazard lights flashed everywhere, but Isaiah had to know. Shouldering his way through EMTs with empty gurneys, he stopped the first police officer he ran into. “This is my house. What happened here?”
“You’re Isaiah Zaroyin?” the sharp-eyed man asked as his hawk eyes scanned Isaiah’s bloody hands before he met his eyes.
Isaiah answered the unspoken question by flashing his FBI badge. “Yes, I’m FBI Special Agent Isaiah Zaroyin, now what happened? Where is everyone? Roxy and the kids, where are they?”
“Now hold on, son,” the officer said as he held both palms forward as if trying to placate a frantic homeowner. “There was no one in the house when we arrived on the scene.” He jerked his chin at the hook and ladder straddling the curb. “You can ask Chief Harrington over there. His men made a thorough search after they secured the gas lines. For a while, we thought we might have a fire, but we got lucky. All’s well that ends well.”
Isaiah ran a quick hand over his head. “Then where are the woman and children who were in this house earlier today?”
The police officer shook his head. “Like I said, the place was empty by the time we rolled on scene. I’ll check with dispatch. Maybe they’re at one of the neighbors’ homes?”
Isaiah knew better. As hard as he tried, he detected no sweet whisper of Roxy’s aura in the immediate area. No psychic hint of Kitty’s or Darrin’s, either. “My security cameras. I need inside to check the footage off my security cameras. That’ll tell us both what we need to know.”
The man scratched the back of his head, lifting his cap and pushing it over his forehead as if he wasn’t sure that was permissible.
“You can have a copy of the footage for evidence when I’m finished,” Isaiah offered, ready to do anything to get inside. “Please. I need to know what happened.”
Grimacing, the man nodded. “Fine. But I go with you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Isaiah tripped past the police tape and through the debris of what had once been, he’d thought, the most secure house in town. Guess not.
Yet again, there were no scorch marks to indicate an explosion had taken place here. Had that same idiot who ran over Sweeny’s guard shack done this?
Isaiah dropped to his knees amid the wreckage of what had once been his living room. The couch was unrecognizable. Blood splattered the wall behind its broken carcass. One bloody handprint on the wall testified Roxy had been there when everything happened.
“Roxy!” he bellowed, on his feet and running now, needing to see with his own eyes what he couldn’t believe his heart was telling him. “No!” he shouted as he kicked aside the chunks of sheetrock and twisted timbers on his way down the hall. “No!”
Frantic, he slammed his palm on the safe room keypad and… “Shit!” The room was empty.
The officer followed as Isaiah checked the rest of his house, yet he found no sign of Roxy or the kids.
“Sir, I need to stop you,” the man said at the empty bedroom where Roxy had slept only last night. Darrin and Kitty’s things were still there. Nugget’s ball lay on Darrin’s rumpled sleeping bag, but even the dog was gone.
“The garage,” he told the officer. “They must be in the—”
“No, Isaiah,” Tate said with authority from the kitchen door that led to the garage. “I’ve already checked. There’s no one out here but first responders. Get the security footage so we know what and who we’re looking for.”
Breathing hard and unable to focus, Isaiah shouldered past Tate to the fireproof metal cabinet beside the door into the garage. Jerking it open, he flipped open the laptop, keyed in his password, then dropped to one knee so Tate and the officer, whose name he still didn’t know because he hadn’t yet cared enough to ask, could observe.
Fast-forwarding through scenes of Tucker fixing steaks while Roxy and Kitty chatted in the kitchen calmed Isaiah’s angst. His breathing slowed to normal when he saw Kitty and Darrin trail down the hall to their room with Nugget on their six. They were tired and Isaiah could see it in their slumped shoulders and the way their feet dragged. Those poor kids.
He watched Tucker’s struggle with indecision at leaving his post after Isaiah had contacted him to tell him they’d caught up with Garrett Randall. Scratching his ear, Isaiah accepted responsibility for that one. If he’d never called his boss, Tucker wouldn’t have left Roxy on her own. This is all my fault.
“No, it isn’t. She’s trained and capable. Give her credit,” Tate growled as his big hand thumped Isaiah’s back. And there it stayed.
“We never should’ve left,” Isaiah worried as he fast-forwarded again. This time he stopped two minutes later, when Roxy stood at Kitty’s and Darrin’s bedroom door. The most adorable, goofy smile blossomed over her face, and God, I need her so damned much. Where is she? Please let her be okay.
‘And you’ll get her back,’ Tate sent him on their private link. ‘We’ll get her back. Her and the kids. You’ll see.’
Heat swarmed Isaiah’s cheeks knowing that Tate could read him so easily, but shit. The time stamp on the footage declared all was well at ten p.m. That was less than three and a half hours ago.
He watched as Roxy made a call from the living room, her boots off and her feet on the couch as if she lived there. Her face lit with a genuine smile and Isaiah knew she was talking with her father. What’d she call him, Daddy Thurston?
When the call ended, Roxy looked at peace with herself, and Isaiah wanted to know why. But then she put both feet to the carpet and her shoulders tensed. A bright light blasted the front room. Her left arm came up as if to ward off what she saw coming at her, and…
CRASH! A monster grill breached the front picture window ahead of a black Ford F150 truck. Glass from the window morphed into lethal projectiles that punctured Roxy’s left arm like killer bees as she shielded her face and eyes. Shuddering, the truck reversed, then jerked to an abrupt, full stop.
Roxy stood in shock, staring into the headlights while a man walked up to her as if asking something. She blinked, cocked her head, then, out of the blue, he hauled back and… The bastard backhanded her! Roxy dropped into the rubble, and Isaiah saw red. Working fast now, the man looked over his shoulder and inadvertently faced the camera.
Tate hissed. “That’s Bob Bratton, Candace’s ex.”
And he’ll die for what he just did to Roxy.
“Come on, come on, come on!” Isaiah begged as he watched Bob dash into the hall and return with a limp Kitty Bratton slung over his shoulder and Darrin trotting at his side. The poor boy was crying. Nugget trailed along in obvious distress, the ridge on his back lifted, but Darrin kept patting his head, and… Damn it to hell! There’s no son-of-a-bitchin’ audio to this video!
Bratton disappeared from view as he most likely placed the kids in his truck, then returned for Roxy. The flaming asshole had the nerve to drag her by her armpits, over the rubble and through the broken glass instead of picking her up. Once again, he disappeared from view. It took a minute before the heavy-duty truck rolled backward. Headlights spotlighted the thoroughly trashed living room as Bob made his getaway, and…
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Isaiah roared, so angry he almost missed Tate saying or asking something that ended with “…know where he is.”
“No, I don’t know where she is!” Isaiah shrieked. “I’m a psychic, not a damned homing beacon!”
“Man, get a grip. Settle down,” Tate hissed, his hand like a vise on Isaiah’s wrist. “I said I know where he is.”
“You, you, you… What?” Isaiah asked, his heart and soul so overloaded he could barely think straight.
Tate nodded, his dark eyes wide and the whites tinged black, as if he’d just come out of a vision. “I know where he is, brother.”
That word again. Brother. Isaiah calmed enough to listen, though every nerve ending in his body throbbed with the need to run find Roxy. “Where who is?”
Tate’s tongue slipped over his lower lip. “Nugget. I know where Nugget is. Are you with me?”
“Say again,” Isaiah ordered even as he canted his head, confused and heartbroken and not sure he’d heard Tate correctly. “You know where Nugget is?”
“I hear animals.” Tate tapped an index finger to the side of his head. “Up here. You know how you can hear most people in the world? Well, I hear four-legged creatures. All of them.”
Isaiah knew his mouth was open and his jaw had gone slack, but he honestly didn’t care where Nugget was. Only he did. He knew he did. It meant something, and if it was important to Tate, it was critical to locating Roxy and the kids. If only his mind would stop pinging.
Tate tugged Isaiah into an awkward guy-hug. “Nugget’s talking to me, man,” he whispered in Isaiah’s ear. “Trust me. He can lead us to Roxy because he’s still tracking his boy. Now, I’ll ask you again, but then I’ve got to move out. Are you with me?”
Isaiah nodded, his brain numb at what he’d just seen, but willing to trust a brother by another mother. And a dog. “Yeah, I’m with you. Let’s roll.”
Bob was sneaky. After that twig snapping, Roxy hadn’t heard so much as one stealthy footstep, but all at once, there he was. Out of the shadow, but only long enough to kill the truck’s ignition and headlights. Finally able to see more of her surroundings, Roxy detected the camping trailer parked at an angle behind the truck. A soft, yellowish light emanated from beyond the curtains at the front windows, a rectangular matrix of six panes of glass that opened outward with some type of window winder thingee. Roxy wasn’t sure. She just called things the way she saw them since one of those panes was open and the winder thingee was in plain view.
One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3) Page 28